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The stories behind the stories: I won’t assert that they are more interesting than the stories themselves, but they’re not without interest. I’ve learned a lot about classical musicians, both individually and as a group, interviewing them through the years. Composers, to my mind, are the best interviewees. They’re smart, they work alone and they seem to enjoy the opportunity to talk about their craft. Singers tend to live up to their reputation for shallowness and flightiness, I’m not sure why.

You never know what you’re going to get, phoning up or sitting down with a classical musician for the first time. It can be nerve-wracking. I didn’t know what to expect when I phoned the great pianist, intellect, essayist and poet Alfred Brendel. He was one of the all-time best scowlers on stage, glaring at coughers, barely breaking a smile in response to thunderous applause. I was intimidated. It turned out he was an absolute delight, funny, easy to laugh, spilling his tea (and laughing at that), willing and interested to talk and reflect about everything, even his inner self. “Well, I don’t think I’m really driven,” he said. “I’m not a fanatic, I dread fanatics. Fanaticism is something that frightens me. So I have given myself the appearance, or the idea, that I do what I do out of my own free will.” And then he laughed.

Pianist Ivo Pogorelich didn’t laugh at all. He was difficult. I sat down with him for a radio interview once and he didn’t like the microphone the engineer gave him. It fit on his head; he apparently didn’t want to muss his hair. Pogorelich told us that unless he got another microphone, one that sat on the table, he was going to walk, quite the diva. We found a table microphone for him and I proceeded with the interview, delicately.

Meredith Crawford, principal viola of Pacific Symphony, cheerfully picked up the phone to talk to an interviewer at the appointed time. She said she had just come back from a walk on the beach. She currently resides in Belmont Shore, a neighborhood in Long Beach, commuting to Costa Mesa to play in the orchestra.

Crawford found Pacific Symphony while finishing up her studies as a college student, wanting to find orchestras just so she could gain audition experience for her professional career, which she thought would come much later.

But during her research of this orchestra, she said the image of the musicians photographed on the beach began to change her mind to take the audition more seriously. The idea of moving to California to become part of what she perceived to be a well-loved and innovative group was her dream.

Crawford was born in Massachusetts in 1986 but her family moved to Maine shortly thereafter.Although she grew up in a musical family, in which both of her grandparents were musicians, she jokes that the music “skipped a generation,” since her parents were not.

Like this:

(Here’s an interview with composer John Williams that I wrote for England’s Gramophone magazine back in 2005. Richard Kaufman conducts Pacific Symphony in Williams’s Oscar-winning score to “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial” for a screening of the film Saturday night. Tickets here.)

By TIMOTHY MANGAN

It must have been a proud moment for the young John Williams – the red carpet premiere of William Wyler’s How to Steal a Million at the Egyptian Theater in 1966. It was one of the composer’s first major film scores. Walking out afterwards, there stood Mr and Mrs Igor Stravinsky two couples ahead, and Williams’s wife, Barbara, encouraged him to introduce himself. But Williams was terrified, he recalled recently. ‘I was convinced that he probably would have said to me, “So you’re responsible for the rubbish I just heard for these two hours.”’

Things are different now, but Williams is still a modest person. Sitting down to an interview in a faux-rustic (this is Hollywood, after all) meeting room at DreamWorks’ offices on the Universal Studios back lot, the man who never met Stravinsky had just received his 44th and 45th Academy Award nominations, for the film scores to Munich and Memoirs of a Geisha. He pronounces himself delighted, a sliver of a smile lightening his features.

‘It’s not something that you get used to, or that has happened so much that it’s not a kick or a thrill.’ Williams (though he didn’t win this year) is now tied in second place, behind Walt Disney, for the most Oscar nominations with composer Alfred Newman, who, as it happens, first hired young ‘Johnny’ Williams as an orchestrator in the 1950s at 20th Century Fox.

“Sometimes as a joke I refer to myself as ‘your intrepid annotator,’” said Michael Clive, longtime program note writer for Pacific Symphony, in an interview last week. He had just arrived back at his Connecticut home and grabbed a cup of coffee, ready now for a chat on the phone.

Clive was referring to a Symphony Magazine piece written about his style of program note writing during his early years with Pacific Symphony. “The premise of that article is that program notes were taking a new direction. They were becoming less formal and more interesting.”

Though he had done some program book writing for regional orchestras as a volunteer when he was 23, Pacific Symphony was officially the first orchestra he wrote program notes for. After Clive’s fellowship at the National Endowment for the Arts for classical music writers, Joseph Horowitz, former artistic advisor of the orchestra, recommended that he contact the Symphony.

From the very start, he was encouraged to take chances in his writing.

“Every time I have written something and thought it was risky, they put it in,” he said. “I said you can take it out if you want, but they have left it.”

Clive obtained his masters of arts degree in music criticism at the Peabody Institute of The Johns Hopkins University in 1987. At the time he was enrolled at the university he had a job with an advertising agency in New York and was living what he described as “a very corporate” lifestyle.

Jeanne Skrocki remembers a time when she had given up the violin and might not ever play again.

Twenty-five years later, she is the now assistant concertmaster of Pacific Symphony, a spot that seems like it was reserved especially for her, empty for five years before she filled it in 1993. This week, she will be returning home with her daughter, who is also a professional violinist, and the rest of the Symphony from their recent five city tour in China.

Before jetting to China, Skrocki learned that she would lead Pacific Symphony as concertmaster for its first international tour since going to Europe in 2006. Originally, when auditioning for the orchestra in 1992, she placed fourteenth violin.

Before that audition, Skrocki had not practiced the violin for ten years while she was exploring other interests as a college student and after graduation.

“I got the violin out, dusted it off and I started practicing. It was horrible, it was really awful. I couldn’t do anything. It was a solid six months before it even was enjoyable again,” she said. “I just worked really hard, got back into shape, took the audition and here I am now leading the orchestra on tour.”

Skrocki began playing the violin at age five with her mother, renowned violinist and teacher Bonnie Bell. Later, when she turned ten, she began studying with her stepfather, Manuel Compinsky of the famed Compinsky Trio.

When she was eight years old Skrocki remembers other famous musicians coming over to her Los Angeles home to play chamber music with her father almost every week. With this musical upbringing, Skrocki went on to play chamber and then orchestral music as a teenager with various youth orchestras and ensembles.

While Bernstein invariably called St.Clair “Cowboy,” St.Clair called Bernstein “Mr. B.” This was St.Clair’s own coinage (taken up by others) and a response to Bernstein’s mock protest one day, his hands around St.Clair’s neck and exclaiming, “Stop calling me Mr. Bernstein!” St.Clair explained to Bernstein that he needed someone in his life to call “Mister,” as a sign of respect, and “unfortunately or fortunately” for Bernstein, he happened to be the one. St.Clair was never going to call him Lenny. And so Mr. B was born.

Behind the scenes, Bernstein’s personality was sensitive, childlike and infectious, St.Clair says. There were many who felt protective of him, including St.Clair.

“I do know that every person in his life had a special relationship with him. He didn’t treat anybody in a general way. He looked in you and found what was special to you and that’s what he loved about you. The thing is that it didn’t matter what your walk of life was. If you were honest and that’s who you were and you were proud of it, he would love you. He found something.”

THE FINAL CONCERT

During our conversation, St.Clair’s thoughts kept drifting back to Bernstein’s last week at Tanglewood, in August, 1990.

St.Clair arrived a day after Bernstein that year and was immediately told that Bernstein was not well and didn’t want to see anyone, but wanted to see him. He was told to go to a rehearsal space where Bernstein was awaiting him.

“There was an old armchair, with a high back and big wide arms — they used it I’m sure in some opera production, some prop. He was sitting in there and he had some oxygen and a handheld kind of thing, something to help open his lungs up. He looked at me and he kind of perked up a little bit. …

“I remember sitting down on the arm of the chair and reaching around and kissing him on the forehead and I look, and then I did another closer look into his eyes. And he wagged his finger like that. He said to me something quite interesting, he said, ‘Don’t you tell anybody what you just saw.’ Because what I saw was that he wasn’t himself and he wasn’t really all there the way everyone was normally greeted with this flash of energy and spark and life and knowledge and understanding. Every time you looked into his eyes you were blinded.”

Later that week, Bernstein broke down during a rehearsal. He was preparing for what would turn out to be his last concert, rehearsing the Boston Symphony in Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7. All went well. But when he started to rehearse his own work, “Arias and Barcarolles,” in a new version orchestrated by Bright Sheng, things started to go sour. The orchestra was reading, there were misprints, Bernstein didn’t like this and that.

“He gets a little fatigued, he can’t breathe, he can’t get air,” St.Clair recalls. “I was there, I kept my eye on him and I saw the frustration kind of mounting. It’s not an easy piece and it was new to everybody.” Finally, Bernstein had had enough.

“He just put the baton down and left the stage.” St.Clair and Bernstein’s entourage immediately jumped on stage and followed Bernstein to the green room, where he sat, exhausted, on a couch.

Looking for solutions, someone suggested that St.Clair could take over conducting “Arias and Barcarolles.” Together with intermission, that would give Bernstein almost an hour’s break during the concert between the Britten and the Beethoven.

“I’ll never forget,” St.Clair says, “he looked over at me, and even as sick as he was and as disappointed as he was, it just shows how quick he was — he looked over at me and in a mock Texas accent said, ‘Cowboy, you got it in ya? You got it in ya?” St.Clair did.

Bernstein didn’t quite give up on “Arias and Barcarolles” entirely, however. On the Friday afternoon before the Sunday concert, he got two pianists and a pair of singers together, with St.Clair conducting and went through the piece in detail. “For three hours, he was back in his element,” St.Clair says. “I mean the teacher we all knew him to be. It was a music lesson, it was a conducting lesson, it was a singing lesson, it was a master class, all rolled into one.”

The final concert, that Sunday, became a famous occasion, of course, witnesses describing a “gasping” Bernstein struggling to get through it. Deutsche Grammophon issued it as a recording after Bernstein’s death, minus St.Clair’s contribution to the program. In its review of the concert, The New York Times mentioned the young conductor in passing. Just a few weeks later, on Oct. 1, 1990, St.Clair assumed the music directorship at Pacific Symphony.

FLOWERS FOR A LEGEND

One of St.Clair’s fondest memories of Bernstein is back in Vienna, at “The Quiet Place” rehearsals. This particular rehearsal was held upstairs at the Staatsoper, as a ballet company — St.Clair thinks it was the Bolshoi — gave a performance on the main stage. Late in the evening, after the rehearsal had ended, Bernstein, St.Clair and the entourage headed out the stage door, on the way to the Hotel Bristol for dinner with the master. As they emerged, they found a throng of people waiting with flowers. They were waiting for the ballerinas.

“It was a big crowd so we kind of gathered around him,” St.Clair says. “Somebody yelled out, ‘There’s Leonard Bernstein!’ And the whole place is looking around and they found him and we huddled around and it starts raining roses, all the flowers just started pouring over us and it’s literally raining roses.” St.Clair and the others quickly whisked Bernstein away.

Carl St.Clair was sitting at a table outside a popular cafe in downtown Laguna Beach when we met with him the other day. He had musical scores spread out on the table in front of him, and was marking up one of them for a performance the following weekend. He put them away and then went indoors to grab a cup of coffee before returning to talk.

The topic today was Leonard Bernstein, a teacher and mentor of St.Clair’s. The two of us have talked about Bernstein many times over the years, but always in passing and glancing efforts, never in one fell swoop like this. With the arrival of the centennial of Bernstein’s birth, it was time to get some of St.Clair’s Bernstein memories on record. He came loaded for bear.

Before a formal question was broached, he pulled out his phone. A stranger had recently sent him a pirated video of a rehearsal at Tanglewood on Saturday, Aug. 18, 1990, with the Boston Symphony and a young, dark-haired St.Clair. The piece being rehearsed was Bernstein’s “Arias and Barcarolles,” which would have its orchestral premiere the next day. Bernstein, who was sitting in the audience during the rehearsal, was too sick to lead it himself, so St.Clair got the call.

“I started rehearsing this 35-minute piece in overtime,” St.Clair says. “We were still changing notes, we were still figuring out harmonics.” There was a lot of work to be done, and not much time to do it. The next day, with Bernstein managing to conduct Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” from “Peter Grimes” and Beethoven’s 7th, and St.Clair conducting “Arias and Barcarolles,” was Bernstein’s last concert. He would formally retire from conducting and die, age 72, less than two months later.

TCHAIKOVSKY IN TEXAS

St.Clair first met Bernstein in 1985. But when asked about his first meeting, he goes back 13 years to a Friday night when he had come home for the weekend from college. Home was Hochheim, Texas, an unincorporated town in the Southeastern part of the state, population 36. While he was waiting for friends to pick him up and go to a country and western dance, St.Clair turned on his black-and-white TV and began turning channels. For some reason, the educational channel, KLRN, from Austin and San Antonio, was coming in clear that night and St.Clair saw the insignia of the Boston Symphony.

It was a broadcast from Tanglewood, Leonard Bernstein leading the BSO in Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5 on the annual Serge Koussevitzky Memorial Concert. St.Clair was struck by the golden tones of the announcer, whom he now imitates listing the particulars of the program. “I’m thinking the guy is speaking a foreign language,” St.Clair says.

“At that time I had never heard Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5. I had never heard a professional orchestra. And I only knew Leonard Bernstein as the composer who wrote a piece for high school band called Suite from ‘West Side Story.’ I didn’t know he was the great maestro.”

St.Clair was immediately transfixed by what he was seeing and hearing. By the time the second movement came around, his friends showed up in a car, honking and yelling at him to come out to the dance. “I said you have to go without me, I have to stay here.”

The musicians of the Boston Symphony impressed him, especially the trumpet player. The Tchaikovsky impressed him, and left him in a daze by the end. But most of all, Bernstein impressed him. “I remember seeing this conductor thinking I’ve never seen anybody move like that or conduct or emote like that.” He had no inkling at the time that he would eventually study with Bernstein and become a close associate and even lead the Boston Symphony itself, with many of these same players still in the group.

MEETING AT TANGLEWOOD

St.Clair does remember the first time he actually met Bernstein, of course. At this time, the summer of 1985, he became a conducting fellow at Tanglewood, studying the art of conducting under the esteemed teacher Gustav Meier, who headed the program there. Bernstein had been a regular at Tanglewood for decades but had been away for a couple years. The conducting students awaited his return within the living room of Seranak, the former home of Koussevitzky on Tanglewood’s grounds. This was where the lessons were held. They saw Bernstein coming up the driveway.

“I was very nervous,” St.Clair says. “He comes into the room, and there’s a big double door and we’re all standing in total respect. He greeted Gustav, of course they had known one another. … But almost immediately he said, in this kind of Texas accent, or, in a Bostonian/Texas accent, ‘Where’s that cowboy from Texas? I’ve never met a cowboy from Texas who’s also a conductor.’” “Cowboy,” in fact, became Bernstein’s nickname for St.Clair, used to address him for the next five years.

Officially, St.Clair studied with Bernstein for just that one week in 1985. But in 1986, St.Clair became an assistant conductor with the Boston Symphony, and the association continued. Whenever Bernstein came to Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony, St.Clair was assigned as his assistant conductor. But he also became part of a small group of young conductors and musicians, a kind of entourage, who hung around and supported the maestro as well as gleaned wisdom from him. “Every second I was with him was a lesson,” St.Clair says.

Over the years, there were a lot of seconds. Early in 1986, eager to continue his association with Bernstein and on sabbatical from the University of Michigan, St.Clair traveled to Vienna to observe him rehearse and conduct the revised version of “The Quiet Place” at the Staatsoper. Initially, St.Clair thought he’d try to remain inconspicuous. He didn’t approach Bernstein about the visit, but Harry Kraut, Bernstein’s manager. Kraut gave the go ahead and told St.Clair to meet them in the lobby of the Staatsoper on the day of a rehearsal. At the given time, St.Clair stood against the wall of the lobby, hoping not to be noticed by Bernstein, as his entourage approached.

“I’m up against the wall, he gets literally in front of me, profiled, and without even looking at me, stops right in front of me and goes, ‘Cowboy, what the hell are you doing in Vienna?’ Then he looked at me and gave me a big hug and he says, ‘Come on, let’s go!’”

St.Clair saw Bernstein mostly during the summers. Though Bernstein begged St.Clair to call him for any advice he might need during the rest of the year, St.Clair didn’t want to waste Bernstein’s time. “I said to him, ‘There’s going to come a time in my life when the only person who’s going to be able to help me is going to be you. At that time I will have absolutely no problem calling you. But as long as somebody else can do that for me, I’m not going to bother you.’ I never made the call.”

LENNY, THE TEACHER

“His teaching style was no imitation,” St.Clair says. “He never showed us. He wanted you to find it.”

Still, he had ways of making sure you did. St.Clair recalls rehearsing Mendelssohn’s “Italian” Symphony with the orchestra at Schleswig-Holstein, where Bernstein had established a festival. Bernstein sat listening. “He sat at his table, didn’t say a word, didn’t interrupt, nothing.”

After about an hour, the rehearsal ended. “Cowboy, what are you doing for lunch?,” Bernstein said. St.Clair said he was free.

“Let’s go to the lake and have some bread and cheese and wine,” Bernstein said excitedly. “Hey, can you get the guys together? Oh, bring your score.”

And so, that afternoon, along with conductors Mark Stringer and Eiji Oue, St.Clair sat on a blanket by a lake, picnicking and combing through the score of the “Italian” Symphony.

“As much as I thought I knew and as hard as I had studied this score, when I got to see it through his eyes, with his knowledge, I realized how blind I really was,” St.Clair says. “We went through every measure and in every measure I learned something.”

Another time, in Leningrad, on a tour with Bernstein and several young conductors, he came off stage after conducting a performance. Bernstein was waiting in the wings and asked, “Cowboy, did you like the performance?” St.Clair said he thought the orchestra played beautifully. “Huh,” came Bernstein’s reply. “Why didn’t you show that? Why didn’t you show you were pleased?”